So, months ago I met a guy at a party. We hit it off and he drove about 80 miles to come see me. We still hit it off but a week later he got back with his ex...fast forward about two or three months and he's broken up with his ex because he wants to be with me and I'm seeing him on Monday
I feel very strongly toward him and I think he does too.
OK, story time.
She was the terror of midtown on this rainy Tuesday in September; leaping with reckless abandon from puddle to puddle in her purple galoshes, with no regard for the dryness of her fellow man. She may have been old enough to drink, but her flannel skirt and denim jacket were straight out of Teen Vogue and she had no intention of acting her age, society be damned. It was Tuesday and that meant $2 cappuccinos at Le Café Noir.
She knew it sounded cliche, a cafe with a French name, but she loved the place. It was decked out with prints of black and white photos, old movie posters and silhouettes of famous people...she didnt know who François-Marie Arouet was, but she loved the funny dress he whore in the artfully done charcoal that hung above her favorite chair.
Le Café Noir was her hangout, her lair, her burrow...but on this rainy Tuesday in September, Le Café Noir was closed; a small sign was stuck to the window that read Closed for business pending inspection and approval. The sinister insignia of some evil government agency sat at the bottom of the page; the Devils black seal on his stationary from hell. Where, now, would Olivié seek refuge? Where would she drink earthenware cup after earthenware cup of cappuccino if not under the dim red fixtures of Le Café Noir? For the first time since high school graduation, she was at a complete and utter loss. She turned and walked slowly, morosely past the cafe, looking through the windows as she passed. Even through the darkened windows she could make out her chair- HER chair...and François with his funny dress...who would greet him now? She continued to walk, but was met with the most disturbing of images yet.
A trashcan, filled to the brim with coffee cups. They were tall, short, bowl-shaped, thimble-sized, earthenware and glass. Some broken and some whole, but all empty. She picked up the top-most cup, teetering like a balance-less cherry upon a Sunday of doom; her thirst for coffee was the spear-like banana and her misery was the black fudge. She stared at her warped reflection in the concave, porcelain bottom of the cup, the only color being the dry stains left from the last drink that this cup help. She inhaled deeply. Aah, mocha latte with a dash of Cinnamon..drunk all, and left no friendly drop to help me after... She licked the inner rim of the cup, tasting the last vestige of mocha flavor that it held. Thy lips are warm, She said as she dropped the mug with a crash and continued walking, Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of your Grace, for trouble being gone, comfort should remain; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave. Her quote ended with a long, defeated sigh.